


Chirography

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [97]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit squishy, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, love letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>chirography: noun: kīˈräɡrəfē: handwriting</p><p>from Merriam-Webster:</p><p>chiro-, comes from a Greek word meaning "hand" and occurs in words such as chiromancy ("the art of palm reading") and enchiridion ("a handbook or manual"), as well as chiropractic. Chirography first appeared in English in the 17th century and probably derived from chirograph, a now rare word referring to any of various legal documents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chirography

It was a good thing Sherlock lived in the age of texting, social media and email, because his handwriting was almost entirely unreadable. It was not quite illegible, you could make out the words if you squinted at it and turned it about, and spent hours pondering it. Mostly, John mused quietly to himself, it had to be the ugliest example of chirography he had ever seen. You would think those long hands that could make his violin sing John to sleep when the nightmares hit would only produce things of beauty, such was not the case...

However. On the morning of their wedding, (they were only doing the ceremony for Mrs. Hudson, as they felt married the moment they each slipped matching engagement rings on the other's finger) he pulled out a fragile, well-creased scrap of composition paper, smoothed it out on the desk and smiled.

\---2012 (the date had long been smeared off, but it was written the night of the confrontation with Moriarty at the pool.)

John-

You know I prefer to text, but what I want, no, need to communicate to you is not something that I believe should be texted or phoned in. Tonight, I, damnit, no that's not quite true, I have known for roughly a bit over one year, three months, twenty-three days and four hours, that I am irrevocably, unmistakably in love with you. It just took almost dying with you for me to admit it fully to myself, and believe me, if you had died in that vest, I would not have survived this night, whether from the blast or by my own hand, as my life is worth nothing without your presence in it.

Dramatic, a bit, yes, but I am nothing if not dramatic. Dramatic, but true.

The very first day I met you, something cracked deep in my 'heart' if you consider that something I am capable of possessing. I was not quite sure I was built with that organ until I recognized it walking outside of my body in the form of yourself. No, I know, I have that piece of amazing machinery in my chest that allows me to exist, what I mean is that heart that resides in the very center of my mind palace, the thing that makes me want to be a better person, the thing that dies a bit each time you feel my life is somehow more important than yours when you put yourself in danger for me. Sorry, long winded, but I'm trying to unravel this thing, and I need you to know, and I can't say these things to your face yet. Sentiment and all, I'm crap at that emotional fluffy stuff; puppies and rainbows...sorry, off track. 

Point I'm trying to make is. I love you. I love you, John Watson, and even if you don't feel the same way, though, of course, I sincerely hope you do, I always will.

Sorry, I know my handwriting's crap as is the composition I attempted to write for you after we got back home from the pool and after I got you back to sleep. I'm so sorry for adding new nightmares to your already large library. Damn. a bit not good there. I hope you will take this for what it is; my heart, in black and white. For me, there is no one but you.

-S

John smiled and tenderly refolded the letter and slid it into the pocket of the most beautiful trousers he would ever wear and looked into the mirror to see his soon-to-be husband studying him.

"You've kept that all these years?"

"Of course I have."

"Why? It's not poetry and we all agree my handwriting is atroc-"

"As you said in the letter, it is your heart. It is the first time you ever told me you loved me."

John puts his fingers to Sherlock's lips. 

"No, of course I knew before that night. Of course I did, but I was afraid to lose you if I told you before you were ready. I saw it in your eyes that night. That willingness to die with me, not as a comrade in arms, but as you said, you didn't want to live in a world without me in it. I've felt that since the second day I've known you, and I didn't even know you, and yet-"

Sherlock stops his words with the sweetest kiss in fictional history, then sighs and pulls John tight against him.

"I love you, John Watson."

"Ready?"

"If we must."


End file.
